


Out of Mind

by Lightningpants



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-04-19 06:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14231601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpants/pseuds/Lightningpants
Summary: Joe thinks he is doing well with his therapy and new medication.  The journey to recovery isn't going to be fast or easy for him.  Can he manage a burgeoning relationship and find his foothold in wellness?This is a sequel to my story Out of Hand.





	1. Good Day

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be sporadic. I'm planning to add chapters here and there.

Joe spent the rest of the afternoon dozing on the couch.  He planned on reading an article about the latest crime scene technology, but the warmth of the sunlight and the quiet had lulled him into a rare afternoon nap. 

He found himself standing in a park, he thought he was supposed to meet Kent there, and the confusion made him break out in a sweat.  As he walked along the path, he passed a rose bush with beautiful little yellow roses.  Each bloom was so fragrant, and the many flowers were in different stages of opening.  Some were tightly wrapped, the buds closed, while others were frilly and nearly spent.  He bent down to breathe in the delicate aroma when his eyes caught a hint of motion below the bush.  Focusing on the ground, he spotted a single black beetle with a shiny, almost iridescent tinge.  He watched it totter over the bits of mulch on its tiny, spiky feet.  Until it wasn’t on mulch anymore.  It was crawling on a severed human foot, along with twenty or so other beetles. 

He awoke with a gasp, the images fresh and clear in his mind.   His eyes were blurry from sleep.  Feeling disoriented, he reached for his wrist to check the time, but he must not have put a watch on this morning.  He was unmoored in time and space.   The room was darker than he thought it should be.  He wasn’t sure if an hour or six had passed since he drifted off.

He stood, waiting for the lightheadedness to pass, and saw the clock on the microwave.  A jolt of alarm struck him, he was supposed to meet Kent in the park 5 minutes ago.  As he rushed to flatten his ruffled hair, use the toilet, and put on his shoes, his mobile buzzed.

“I’m here!  Waiting on a bench for you.”  Kent texted.  The message sounded matter of fact, neither anxious nor upset.

 His heart was pounding in his chest, the adrenaline flooding his system.  He wanted to tamp it down, but felt helpless at the feeling.  He fired off a quick message as he rode down in the lift.  “Be there in 5.  Sorry.  Sorry.”

 He normally prided himself on punctuality and felt waylaid by the unexpected nap in the middle of the afternoon.  It felt like a decadent way to waste an afternoon.  Children needed naps.  He was a grown man who should be at work.  Should be.  There were lots of should bes.  Striding down the block, he wondered if he could come back a few weeks early from his “vacation.”

 Joe could see Kent from a long way off.  He looked tired even from a distance.  His posture slumped forward, both elbows resting on his knees.  A newspaper held his attention, he must have found it on the bench.  Kent didn’t have a penchant for buying them himself.  He wondered about who had been holding the paper before.   Joe took a deep breath, centering himself before meeting his friend.  Kent must have felt his distant gaze, because he was now walking towards Joe. 

 “Joe!  Hey.  How are you?”  Kent smiled easily at him.  There were lines of tiredness in his face that reminded Joe he’d been working all day.  Emerson’s eyes roved up and down, he hadn’t seen Joe in a few days.  Joe understood that Kent was looking for signs of stress, impending mental breakdown, additional weight loss.

 Joe smiled back and went in for a gentle hug.  They patted each other gingerly.  “Em.  It’s good to see you.  I’m fine.”  He gestured in the direction of the lake.  “Shall we take a turn clockwise?”  Em nodded and they walked.  There was a 2 mile loop in this park.  It was a typical park in the suburbs, full of moms with babies in strollers.  The fit runners in their skin tight clothing breezed by periodically. 

 Em scrutinized him more closely, “What’s this on your cheek?” he wrinkled his brow at Joe, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers over his face.  “Oh, you look a bit groggy.  Those are impressions from your pillow.  Were you sleeping?  Is that why you were late?”

 “Yes.”  Joe admitted.  “I feel a bit off kilter.  I haven’t slept in the afternoon in ages.”

 “That’s good!” Em effused.  “It means you’re unwinding.  How’d the appointment go?”

 Joe exhaled audibly.  “It was better than I thought it would be.  I have medication I will take for the first time tonight and a list of homework, if you believe it.”

 Em nodded.  “I’m so glad you’re getting help, Joe.  I’ve been worried about you.”

 ***

They continued down the path, passing other pedestrians.  The weather was mild, though it was getting dark.  Kent had not expected Joe to go into this treatment idea so meekly.  Joe was gorgeous and magnetic in a sweet way.  His smile melted his insides.  But, the panic attacks and OCD were relentless.  Joe didn’t seem to get a break from the intensity and it was exhausting to be around him on a daily basis.  He felt a strong desire to move in with Joe, and Joe had asked.  Kent provided excuses: his lease was hard to leave, he didn’t sleep well sometimes, he was a bit messy and hard to train, among other reasons.  Joe hadn’t pressed him.  He knew he was intense and difficult to be around.

 

“Are you doing anything after this?  Do you want to eat dinner together?”  Joe asked.  Em was floored.

 

“No, I haven’t got anything on.  What do you want to eat?”  One therapy appointment was all it took to turn a corner?  Emerson felt surprised, excited and a bit of uneasy.  He reached out to grasp Joe’s hand.  It was cold and damp.  Their eyes met. 

***

Joe settled on a Chinese restaurant a few blocks from the park.  He looked it up online and the photos of the interior passed his initial glance.  Emerson tried to think of things to talk about other than calling attention to the food and how great it was that Joe was about to eat out for the first time in weeks.

 Joe looked nervous.  He sat at the table only for a moment before he excused himself to the loo.  He needed to wash his hands and compose himself.  What was he going to order that fell within the rules?  No chicken, thinking about it made him feel ill.  The beef might be good.  It would provide some iron, boost his flagging system.  A flash of memory of dinner with Commander Anderson brought him images of a bloody, dripping steak.  The thought made his heart race.  He had to calm down.  It wasn’t going to be easy, but he was a bloody detective inspector.  He smiled to himself that chasing down a murderer felt more comfortable than ordering food off a menu.  Shit.  Tofu?  Possibly.  Yes.  With vegetables.

 Kent watched his boyfriend arrive back at the table.  He looked washed out.  The sleeping creases had disappeared from his face, and now he simply looked worried.  They sat scanning the menu in silence.  After the third audible exhale from Joe, Kent drew his attention from the menu to Joe.  He was fidgeting with the napkin and breathing audibly.

 “Do you want to leave?”  Emmerson was famished and didn’t really want to go, but knew the expression on Joe’s face meant a panic attack was imminent.  Joe surprised him by softly dismissing the idea.  He was serious about this new activity, even if it was uncomfortable.

 “I’m not hungry, but you’re the only person I’d like to eat dinner with, and we’re here anyway, so let’s do it.”  Joe sighed and tried to recall what it was like to have a normal dinner out.

 Em scrutinized the menu and selected one of his favorites, chicken with ginger and string beans.  When he looked up, Joe was breathing more unevenly and rubbing a spot on his chest.  “Want to do a takeaway and eat at your flat?”

 He hadn’t considered that option and immediately shook his head in assertion and pushed his chair out.  “Can you order?  Tofu and broccoli with the salty sauce.” 

 Joe turned a few heads as he hastily left the restaurant.  The waiter approached Emerson to see what was wrong.  Em placed their orders and went outside to wait with Joe.

*** 

“I’m alright.”

 

 “I know.”

 They stood in silence in the cool night air.  There were clouds beginning to form.  Later there would be rain.  Joe wished for a drink.  Bourbon would be nice.  Emerson wished for dinner.  He was achingly hungry.  They worked through lunch, the case was a long one.

 “How’s the new case?” Joe asked.

 “Skip said not to talk to you about it.”  He gazed mournfully at Joe.  “It might tempt you to move through this faster than you’re ready.”

 Joe frowned at his dark eyed friend.  “Oh come on.  I’m just making conversation.  A little info won’t hurt.”

 “You’re terrible.” Kent laughed as the door opened and the server handed him their bag of food.  Joe felt a surge of dread that he tried to suppress as they walked back to the flat.   There was an urgency to get it over with and a faint hope that he’d feel successful after he finished eating.  When he unlocked the door, he headed for the bathroom to wash his hands and listen to the meditation the doctor had sent him. 

 Kent unpacked the food and placed the cartons on the table.  He took down plates and cutlery and cloth napkins.  The whole scene felt domestic and normal.  He filled two glasses with sparkling water and sat drumming his fingers on the table.  Joe was still in the bathroom a few minutes later.  Just as Kent was about to knock on the door, he emerged. 

 “Thanks for doing this, Em.  It’s lovely.”  Joe’s lips twitched upward as he pocketed his phone and slid to sit in front of his dinner.  He pulled out the plastic vial that held his medication, twisted the lid and swallowed a green and white capsule.  Emerson watched him, wanting to ask what the medicine was called.  He knew Joe wouldn’t tell him.  This was the problem.  Em should start making a list of the things Joe kept from him.  Joe didn’t trust him.  He didn’t trust Emerson’s reactions.  How could he prove to Joe that there was nothing to fear with him.  He could handle all of the things.

 “Er, one thing I forgot was that you won’t eat chicken, and that is the very thing that I ordered.”  He laughed nervously and bit his lip. 

 “Don’t worry about it.  I’ll be busy tackling my own food.”  Joe swiftly broke the seal on his plastic container of tofu.  He used a spoon to scoop rice into the middle of the plate and then arranged tofu along one side with broccoli on the other.  With some of the sauce drizzled on top, he paused to look at Kent, who was staring at him in wonder.  He had been busy watching Joe and hadn’t started on his own food. 

 “Is there something wrong, Em?”  Joe asked him. 

 “Oh, no.” He began to pull his food out.  “I’m just happy to see you ea…uh, happy to see you.”

The smell of food was making him ravenous, now that his reverie was broken, he utterly failed at upholding his side of the conversation.  He shoveled food into his mouth at an undignified rate.  As he tried to remember table manners and things like chewing, he watched Joe operate in his own world.  That therapist lit a fire under him for sure, but when was the other shoe going to drop?  

 Joe seemed serene, he ate a little more slowly than he used to, before the panic attacks.  But he was eating food from a restaurant!   Of course, he was as elegant as usual, his long fingers draped over the utensils.  Emerson marveled at how photogenic he was, and all of it was unintentional.  Sure, a suit completed the package, but even in casual jeans and a pullover, he made his heart beat faster. 

 The meditation had soothed something in Joe.  Eating when his mind wasn’t racing helped a great deal.  He found himself more able to swat away intrusive thoughts about the food.  Pushing them away and concentrating on the color of the tofu or the texture of the broccoli grounded him in reality.  Watching Em bolt his food like he hadn’t had a hot meal in days also made him smile.  Joe picked up a forkful of rice and put it back down.  He wasn’t used to feeling full quite so quickly and was disappointed to stop with a third of his meal left behind.  But it was better than eating yogurt for the millionth time of the week.

 Em noticed that Joe had finished and couldn’t stop himself from asking.  “Feel ok?”

 Joe pursed his lips and frowned at him.  “Please don’t.  I’m getting enough questions from the doctor.”

 He quirked his eyebrow in response.  “Right.  I’ll do the dishes, shall I?”

 “I’ll help you.  Give you another chance to tell me about the case.”


	2. Insomnia

As soon as Em left the apartment to go back to his own flat, Joe let out a groan and sank down into the sofa. He wanted so badly to be well for Emerson, so he could prove that he was capable of functioning on his own and going back to work, possibly even worthy of love. Now it felt good to release the pent up breath he hadn’t realized that he was holding. He felt strange, sweaty and very lethargic from eating dinner. Switching on the tv gave him something mindless to do and he found a documentary about penguins that took him away from his current situation. Not thinking about what he had eaten and where it had come from was the most important part. His stomach felt like it was full of butterflies and rocks. Swallowing down the ever-present nausea, he opened the pot of tiger balm he kept in his pocket and rubbed some on his temples. It was distracting enough.

Around 10, he got a text from Em. “Good night, love. Call me anytime if you need me.”  
Seeing the message was like having a large, warm blanket thrown around his shoulders. Having someone who checked up on him was new. Kent was a keeper. If only he could stop his neurosis from interfering.

“Night, Em. Thank you.” Joe set his phone on the table. He probably should go to bed. Keeping regular hours aided the healing of mental wounds. The smell of the Chinese food lingered in the flat, so he slipped on his shoes and padded out to drop the garbage in the chute.

He figured a cup of tea would help him settle in, and pulled out a box of chamomile. The old standard brew for children, insomniacs and the sick. He sighed, lumping himself in with that group made him feel less than invincible. Of course, no one was invincible. He reached up high in the cabinet to find his favorite tea cup and brought it down gently, only to fumble awkwardly with it as it slipped out of his hand, knocked into the glass kettle and smashed both cup, kettle, and boiling water on the tile floor.

He howled mournfully in the silence of his flat. At least he was suffering this indignity alone, instead of in front of Kent. The glass and water surrounded him, yet he needed to switch on a light to see what he was cleaning up. Taking careful steps, the blonde managed to reach the switch without cutting his feet. At least a giant mess had finite edges. He had the patience and focus to clean up this job with certainty. Relationships were trickier for him than messes. He scooped the glass and water into a triple layer plastic bin liner with a dustpan and wad of towels.

Nearly finished, he reached into the lower cabinet to get a new roll of kitchen paper, when he felt an odd prick and then a cool dampness. Pulling his hand out, he could see a semicircle slice taken out of his palm. There must have been a stray shard of glass that had been knocked into the cabinet. The blood began to well up in earnest and he felt lightheaded at the sight. Joe clamped a kitchen towel over it. He sat on the damp floor for a moment to collect himself. He gave it a minute to stop bleeding, and then he would examine the wound. It would be fine.

***  
Half an hour later, Joe sat in bed, his hand wrapped in white gauze, holding a notepad. The slice was long enough that any sticking plasters he had weren’t large enough to cover the whole wound. He gave up on the idea of tea, instead sitting with a glass of water by his elbow. He felt strangely alert for this time of night. It was probably due to the nap he had taken earlier.  
So, he worked on his homework Dr. Bronkov had given him. He wrote:

Safe Foods  
-granola bars  
-sealed yogurt  
-tofu (cooked)  
-broccoli (cooked)  
-green tea

Was that really it? An odd sensation of oppression descended over his mood. He had done well earlier. Why did it feel so terrible to admit that he had five things he would eat, one of which was a liquid? He sat the pencil and the pad on the bed beside him and pulled the covers off his legs. Taking off his pajama bottoms, he slipped on a pair of shorts and slid the damp fabric into the laundry hamper. He ventured into the bathroom to rinse his face in cool water. He was boiling. After drying his face on a towel, he slipped into the hallway to check the thermostat. It was set where it usually remained, a steady twenty degrees Celsius. He turned the knob down to eighteen degrees, hoping he wouldn’t regret it in the morning. Getting out of bed when there was a chill was difficult. Not that he had anywhere to be tomorrow morning.

Back in the bedroom, he straightened the covers and exhaled audibly again. He was too wide awake to be in here. He grabbed the list he already started and continued back to the sofa. He may as well accomplish something. The next list was going to be much longer than the first.

Foods to Avoid  
-chicken  
-sushi, used to love it, now can’t stop thinking about intestinal worms  
-raw vegetables, e. coli  
-raw fruits, same  
-any buffet, too many unwashed hands  
-milk, just no  
-steak, too bloody  
-food served out of a truck, hell no

He stopped there, just writing and thinking about the foods was enough to make him feel queasy. His tongue felt tacky inside his mouth. He poured himself yet another glass of mineral water. As he stood in the dim light, he realized that he gradually stopped eating many things before he’d gotten together with Kent. Perhaps their new relationship caused some stress, but it was added on top of a problem that had already existed. That revelation provided a small amount of relief. Kent wasn’t the obstacle that was preventing him from eating.

Now, it was 1 am. Fantastic. Laying in bed felt like torture. He was still too hot. All his clothes felt damp again. His brain was fretful and moved from thing to thing like a little sparrow collecting seeds. He wondered briefly if the medication was causing him to feel this way. There wasn’t anything to be done at this point though. He didn’t need to call Dr. Bronkov quite yet. He’d see him in a few days. There was one thing that usually helped him fall asleep.

***

“Mr. Chandler?” a soft voice began to penetrate his foggy head. A warm hand was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and was startled to find himself sprawled on the floor in the hallway in front of his door looking up at the couple who lived across the hall.

“Should we call someone?” The man, whose name might have been Alfred, Joe couldn’t remember right now.

Joe sat up rubbing his face with his hand and managed to croak out, “No, I’m ok.”  His internal monologue was rather different, mostly a stream of, “fuck fuck fuck,” but he didn’t think saying it out loud would increase his esteem in the eyes of his neighbors.

He saw that he was wearing shorts and t-shirt. He didn’t normally wander the halls in this kind of attire. He didn’t normally sleep in the hallway either. Pushing down the alarm he felt, Joe pressed his hand against the carpet of the hallway and felt a sharp pain. Looking down, he saw the bandage, which had a spreading red stain on it. He remembered the cut. Thanked his audience for their concern, he lied a bit and claimed to be a sleepwalker and must have accidentally wandered out here in the night. The couple smiled nervously at him and watched him stand. The wife was holding her cell phone in her hand, ready to take action. The door handle to his apartment turned easily. Thank god. It was unlocked. There weren’t any keys on his person. He wished them a good day and snapped the door shut on their alarmed faces. He wondered if he’d hear about this at the tenant’s meeting.

What greeted him inside the apartment was alarming. There were books spread out over every surface. Numerous sheets of paper had been used to make notes which were mostly indecipherable to him now. An alarm on his phone, which was in his coat pocket sounded. He reached into the pocket, finding a handful of wet leaves and his shrill device. He had set a reminder to take his pill and eat breakfast. Feeling torn about leaving the mess, he sighed and walked into the kitchen. He numbly pulled off the cap of the pill container and placed a capsule in his mouth. Running a glass of water from the tap, he found himself incredibly thirsty and drank two glasses, one after the other.

Eat with the meds, he told himself. A yogurt didn’t require chewing, or thought. He spooned yogurt into his mouth mechanically as he strode around the place in shock. He remembered dinner with Kent. There was a show about penguins. He cut himself. He was in bed. And then nothing. He needed to account for about eight hours of missing time. He sat the container of yogurt down when he found a half empty bottle of vodka and glass sitting on the floor in the bedroom.

Had he been drunk last night? He found the idea improbable. Of course not. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking now. Cleaning the apartment needed to be done, but first he wanted to shower. He removed his clothes and took a cool shower. From the bedroom, he could hear his mobile ringing.

“Joe! I had a few minutes to spare this morning and wanted to see if you’d like to have coffee before I head in to work.” Miles’s voice boomed through the speaker.

“Oh, yes. Good idea.” Joe was nearly finished dressing.

“Meet you by the place near your apartment, Tino’s in five minutes?”

“Sounds good. See you.” He wanted to figure out what he had done last night, but he also wanted to know what was happening at the station. Too far out of the loop and he’d be a forgotten DI. The mess in here could wait, and deciding what to do was like choosing between being stabbed in the right or the left arm. Either way it would hurt. He used a bit of gel to glue his hair in place, to be neat, not for vanity, slid on his shoes at the door and headed out to meet Miles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider leaving me a review or just a little note. I'd love some interaction with folks who still carry a torch for poor old Whitechapel.


	3. No Break

He called Emerson on his mobile as he walked over to the café.  He didn’t want to tell him about the missing time.  He did mention that he had difficulty sleeping and had a rough night.  Kent seemed worried, wanted him to call the doctor, but Joe reassured him that it was ok.  He finished up with promises to call him later just as he reached the café.  Miles was already seated at a table, drinking tea. 

Miles gave him a long look up and down.  “You’re a sight.   Look at those bags under your eyes.  Kent not letting you have any sleep?”  Joe merely huffed at him and asked for a green tea.

 Miles reached out a finger towards his bandaged hand and raised his eyebrows.  “What happened there?”

 “Oh, I dropped the kettle and cut my hand.  Clumsy me.”  He tried to laugh, but it sounded false somehow.  He swallowed and changed subjects, “So, how’s the case?  Kent said you had a long day?”

 Miles pushed a large blueberry scone in front of Joe.  “I don’t want you to get any ideas about coming back too soon, but I’ll fill you in anyway.  We don’t want your brain to turn into goo.  What do you think of this?”  Miles pulled a file out of his coat and proceeded to go into detail about the murders.  The victims were all similar in appearance, but killed in drastically different ways. 

 The waitress came by with Joe’s tea.  He picked up the cup, feeling annoyed when his hand trembled, the cup rattling against the saucer.

 “How long has that been going on?”  Miles pointed at Joe’s unbandaged hand with a frown.

 “I had a late night, mum.  Go easy on me.”  He sat the cup back down after taking a big swallow.  It felt good going down.  He drew in a long breath as he picked up the file and began comparing the girls’ addresses. 

“Mansell proposed.”  Miles said mildly as he sipped his sweet tea.  “He’s ecstatic because Erica said yes.  Kent’s in a bit of a snit about the whole idea.  But I do think he’s stressed out by your illness too.”  He shot another meaningful look at Joe.

 “Oh, good, I suppose.”  Joe shifted in his chair thoughtfully.  “Mansell needs someone steady.  I’ll have a chat with…”  Joe trailed off, huffing and drawing his hand to his belly.  He closed his eyes and breathed steadily.  He felt a sharp pain in his gut, and he didn’t want to alarm Miles again after the last time, so pretending everything was fine seemed like the way to go.  “I’ll have a chat with Kent,” he said in a strangled voice. 

“Are you ok?”  Miles asked him, “You don’t look it.”

 Joe crossed his legs and leaned forward to grasp his tea.  He frowned.  “It’s nothing.”

Miles watched him carefully.  “What do you think of the case?”

 Joe’s attention flicked back to the file.  Breathing was not helping, each time he drew in a breath, it caused stabbing pains.  He pressed his free hand into the painful spot and gasped.  The pressure didn’t help.  He looked down at the files, the words were swimming about on the page.  He turned to Miles, who was eyeing him warily.

 “Miles,” Joe couldn’t hold back a groan, “I think something’s wrong.”

 Ray knocked his chair over, he stood so quickly, “What can I do?  What’s wrong?”

 “Can you help me to your car?”  Joe bit out the words, now in obvious pain.  He clamped both arms around his midsection and made a low sound that came from his chest.  Miles somehow managed to get him up and out the door, supporting him under one arm.  The car was parked just outside the door, by a stroke of luck.  Miles unlocked the car and swung open the passenger door. 

 “Where to?”  he asked, turning on the engine.  “And what in the bloody hell is the matter with you now?”

 Joe was folded in on himself and feeling worse by the minute.  “I don’t know what’s wrong.  Take me home so I can lie down.”

Miles took stock of the situation.  His tall friend was hunched over in the seat, becoming increasingly pale. 

 “Look at you!  You’ve gone white and you’re sweating more than is normal for a person at this temperature.”  Miles buckled himself into the car and started the engine. 

 “Shit.” Joe was fumbling with his seat belt, this time yanking it off.  “Here we go again.” He opened the car door, leaned out and was sick onto the pavement.  He was becoming an expert at vomiting discretely.  Groaning, he closed the car door.  Having eaten little but half a yogurt meant there wasn’t much to come up.  Miles sat calmly next to him.

 “I’m taking you to casualty.”  He pulled out into traffic, not waiting for him to buckle his seat belt.

 “Miles, I think I’m having a reaction to the new medication.  Just take me home.  Please?”  Joe wearily rubbed his forehead.  He wished for a bottle of water to wash out his mouth.

 Miles watched him out of the corner of his eye.  “Are you sure?  You don’t seem well, Joe.”

He could feel his stomach churning again, but this time it was just nausea.   He was pretty sure he could make it home without vomiting again.  “I’ll call my doctor when I get home.  No need for casualty.  I’m not dying.”

 Miles sped along the street.  “I’m not dragging you into casualty if you don’t want it, but I am calling Kent.  I think he’d want to know.”

 “I’ve been making good decisions lately.”  Joe snapped.  “I’m doing all the things I’m supposed to be doing.”  He blew a long breath out and tried to moan quietly to himself.  The nausea remained the same if he kept his eyes on the road.  Looking down or at Miles made it worse.  He reached into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief.  He had been sweating buckets lately.  Every few hours, he felt like he needed to shower, change his clothes.  It wasn’t something he wanted to cope with for a long time.  He shuddered and wiped his face with the cloth.  Miles pulled up to the front of his building.

“Thanks, Miles.” Joe flashed a smile at him and swung himself out of the car.  He was surprised to see him put on the hazard lights and come around to his side.

 “I’ll see you up.”  Miles came close, hovering near in case Joe collapsed. 

 “I’ll be fine.  There’s no need.”  Joe protested and started walking, albeit unsteadily toward the front door.  Miles trailed him, while waiting for Kent to pick up the phone.  Kent answered and Miles filled him in on the events of the morning.  Joe could hear Kent’s agitated voice.  Once in the elevator, Miles put Joe on the phone with Kent.

 “Joe, god, are you ok?  I just talked to you not too long ago and you sounded fine.  What happened?”  He could hear the worry in Kent’s voice.

 “I am fine, just a little stomachache this morning.  Nothing for you to worry about.”  Joe tried to sound reassuring.  He stepped onto his floor and felt in his pocket for his keys.

 “Miles said you got sick on the street.”  Kent must have been at the station, because Joe could hear Mansell talking in the background.

 “Just a little bit.”  Joe got the door open and Miles followed him inside.  Miles glanced around in wonder at the books and papers strewn everywhere.  Any time he had been at Joe’s place, it was buttoned up and neat as a pin.  This was almost more concerning than the sudden illness he had at the café. 

 Kent paused, trying to come up with the right words.  “You’re not starting down this cycle again of anxiety and puking are you?”

 “No, I think I’m having side effects from the new meds.”  Joe sat on the couch and eyed Miles, who was prowling around the apartment as if it were a crime scene.

 “I think you should call the doctor.  Take in fluids.  Eat something.  You know the drill.  You did so well last night, love.  It’s upsetting that this is happening again.”  Kent sighed.  “I should let you go.  I love you.  Call me later.”

 “I am going to.  Um, you too.”  Joe hung up the phone and passed it to Miles, who continued to circle the place like a crow looking for a place to land.  He slid the phone into his pocket and sat next to Joe on the couch.

“Forgive me for saying it, but this place is a tip.”  Miles tapped Joe’s leg.  “I know you’ve been having a wobble, but are you losing it?”

 Joe glanced around with dismay and slowly shook his head no.  “Of course not, though I am missing a bit of time from last night.”

 Miles tilted his head.  “Missing time?  You don’t remember doing this?”

 “No.”  Joe shifted gingerly, the discomfort making him irritable.  “Ohhhh, I need to lie down.”  Miles took the chair in the corner, so he could sprawl out.  He rubbed his stomach absently.  Miles continued to sit with Joe, who squirmed on the couch.  He lay with his eyes closed and groaned periodically. 

 “I’ve been your bloody secretary all morning, may as well call your doc while I’m at it.  Where’s the number?”

 Joe frowned, but reluctantly told him.  “It’s on the bottle in the kitchen.”

 Miles was troubled by the missing time.  That was another term for black out drunk if he had to guess.  Any idiot would have noticed the vodka in the bedroom.  He needed to speak to Kent about Joe’s extracurricular activities.  Miles crept into the kitchen and found the medication bottle on the counter.  The bright yellow label indicated that it was not to be taken with alcohol.  He found the doctor’s name and dialed the number on his cell.  Leaving a message with the receptionist, Miles sighed.  He couldn’t leave Joe here like this in pain alone.

 ***

Miles sat with Joe, making sure he wasn’t getting worse.  All things considered, it wasn’t a bad day to babysit Joe.  Mansell, Riley and Kent had everything under control at the station.  He told Kent that he was working on a side project and he didn’t ask any questions.  The doctor called back after an hour and a half.  Miles answered the phone and described Joe’s symptoms, sweating, abdominal pain, and the vomiting.  The doc couldn’t disclose anything to Miles due to patient privacy, so he passed the phone to Joe who had been dozing fitfully.  He slipped out onto the balcony so Joe could converse without an eavesdropper, even though he desperately wanted to know what was going on.

 He heard the door slide open, and Joe stepped into the morning sunlight, somehow looking more awful than he had before.  “Thanks, um, for calling.”  Miles waited, hoping Joe would tell him what the doctor said.

 “I’m supposed to head directly to the emergency room.  Could you give me a lift?”  Joe grimaced and leaned forward onto the railing.  

 “Let’s go then.”  Miles took his arm, guiding him through the door.

 


	4. Down

The hospital wasn’t crowded by some strange miracle.  They took Joe back to a bed almost immediately.  Maybe it had something to do with Miles, who flashed his badge and dropped his wife’s name.  Judy had been working as a nurse before she took time off to be with the baby.

 

One of the nurses introduced herself as Lydia.  Miles still had Joe by the arm and helped him climb onto a lumpy bed.  Lydia handed Joe a plastic wrapped gown, and when she saw the queasy expression on his face, turned to grab a basin. 

 

“You’re not feeling very well, Mr. Chandler?”  She snapped on some nitrile gloves as she questioned him.

 

Joe shook his head slowly as he attempted to get comfortable on the bed.  The car ride and walking had upset Joe’s equilibrium, he felt nauseated and clammy.  He clutched the plastic bowl.  Leaning backward felt best, but with all the people in the room, it felt odd to be laying down.  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, with the basin in his lap.   

 

“Alright, now, we need you disrobe and put the gown on with the opening in the front, please.”  Nurse Lydia pulled the curtain over the door.  “I’ll just leave you to it.”

 

He swallowed and sighed and slid the basin to the side of the bed.  Undoing his front buttons seemed to take forever.  The pain in his stomach was building again and he knew he was going to be sick any moment.   He leaned over and swiftly vomited into the basin, alarming Miles in the process. 

 

“Oi, Joe!  I can’t believe you’re not empty yet.”  He exclaimed.  “Sorry, let me go get the nurse.”  He scrambled out, feeling quite out of his depth. 

 

A few moments later, Lydia returned, making sympathetic noises.  She removed the foul mess, gave him a cup of water and a new bin.  “Ok, love, your friend said you need a bit of help.  Alright if I help you off with your shirt?”

 

Joe nodded and passed his handkerchief over his brow.  Sweat was trickling down his back and he watched the nurse unbutton the rest of the front, something that would have terrified him even if he wasn’t feeling like death.  With shaking hands, he unbuckled his belt and undid the fly.  She was making comforting small talk, but Joe was feeling so unmoored that he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of anything she said.  Lydia urged him to lay down so she could take his trousers.  He leaned back and she pulled them off.  She held the hospital gown with its sleeves up so he could slide in.  She pulled a warmed blanket over his legs.  He could feel the sweat on his back drying.  It left a film on his skin that would have been intolerable had he been able to do something about it.  For now, he tried to breathe as best he could.  A person couldn’t maintain a level of high anxiety indefinitely.

 

Miles reappeared after rapping loudly on the doorframe.  He had been in enough hospital rooms to know where to rest his gaze, so he seemed strangely at ease.  He clutched a paper cup of tea and resumed his position in the plastic chair. 

 

Joe quietly answered the litany of questions.  How much vomiting?  How long?  Appetite?  Pain?  Miles snorted at the answers he didn’t like.  Joe ignored him.  Lydia took blood and copious notes.  The doctor would be in to see him in a few minutes, or hours.  They lied about that sort of thing all the time.  He could have ice chips from a flimsy cup while he waited.  She left them alone, with the horrible fluorescent lights and the odd sounding air vent.

 

Miles punctuated the silence with ramblings about the nurse, what she must be like outside of work and how extraordinarily lovely he found her calves to be.  He complained about the tea, which was inevitable and expected.  He remarked on Joe’s bright red silk boxer shorts and on how thin Joe’s face had become.  Joe knew he was trying to be annoying to keep Joe’s mind off the unrelenting nausea that plagued him.  He was grateful.

 

The ice chips did not do the trick, he was in the middle of another round of retching that brought tears to his eyes.  There was a knock at the door and Miles shouted, “Come!” A doctor burst into the room with a tablet in his hand.  He was flanked by Lydia. 

***

 

Miles stepped out into the hallway to give Joe some privacy.  He felt it was best to tell Emerson that his boyfriend or whatever was in the hospital. 

 

“Kent?  I’ve got some news for you.”  Miles knew the best thing was to be direct.

 

“Sir?  Where are you?  Are you ok?”  His voice was high and slightly squeaky.

“I’m alright, son, but I’m here with Joe at Casualty.  He’s being seen by the doctor as we speak.”  Miles paused for a reaction.

 

“Shit.  Should I come down?  Is it bad?”  Now Kent was in tears, the strain of keeping them from falling caused his voice to shake.

 

“I don’t know.  He’s having pains in his gut and can’t keep anything down.”  Miles found yet another plastic chair and kicked it out of frustration.

 

“I’m coming down there. Stay with him.”  Kent hung up, leaving Miles alone.

***

He walked back down the hall and entered the room just at the doctor was leaving.  He eyed Joe, who had given into comfort and lay curled on his side. 

 

“What’d they say?”  Miles sat, gazing at Joe softly.

 

He took a breath to gather his strength and then spoke in a hoarse voice, “It could be an intestinal blockage or an ulcer or a virus.  They’ve got to do some tests.”

 

“Right.  That doesn’t sound great, but you’re not dying.  All those options have treatment. Jesus, why’d I call Kent?” Miles ran his hands through his hair.  “Well, he’s leaving the office to come see you.”

 

Joe closed his eyes and said in a croaky voice, “I’ll be ok on my own.  You can go on to work.  Kent is going to hover.”

 

“You must be insane.  Someone has to look out for your wellbeing.”  Miles folded his arms and sat next to the bed, noting the dark circles under the DI’s eyes.  Joe rested fitfully until the ultrasound tech wheeled her machine into the room.  The nurse followed closely behind with IV supplies.  Kent popped his head in just as the tiny cubicle was packed with people.  The nurses mentioned there was a waiting room at the end of the hall and that it would probably take ten minutes.

 

***

“What did the doctor say?”  Kent followed Miles out of the room.  “He looked rather pale, I thought.  Are they admitting him?”

 

Miles glanced at Kent out of the corner of his eye.  “He’s probably going to be fine.  I may have worried you unnecessarily over the phone.”

 

They came to an empty room with a line of humming vending machines in the back.  Miles chose an upholstered chair that smelt of dust. 

 

Miles continued.  “So, he had a funny turn at the café, I took him home.  He felt worse, I called the doctor, and now he’s here.  I’d say this is progress, him getting prompt medical care.”

 

“What’re the tests for?” Kent stood in front of a machine that offered tea.  He unwisely added coins in the hopes of having a drinkable beverage.

 

Miles shrugged.  “Judy’s the one who’d know the names of the tests.  They’re trying to decide if it’s a blockage, a virus or an ulcer.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he had all three.”

 

Emerson carried his paper cup of brown liquid to the chair facing Miles.  They sat in silence.  Em took a drink of the tea and grimaced.  It was wretched.

 

“Kent, don’t take this the wrong way, but have you been spending nights at Joe’s flat recently?” Miles scrutinized the health of his cuticles as he waited for Kent’s reaction.

 

“Um, no, actually, we’ve been spending time apart.  The night I called the paramedics was the last time I spent the night with him.  Honestly, I thought I wasn’t helping him.  And, all of this has been taking a toll on me.  I was starting to feel anxious about spending time with him, so we um, are taking a break.”  He sighed and took another sip of tea, coughing a bit as it went down the wrong way. 

 

Miles patted him roughly on the back until Emerson waved him away. “I’m concerned that Joe is drinking to excess again.  His entire flat is in a state of disarray.  When I brought him up today after he was ill, I had a look around.  Empty vodka bottle by the bed.  What do you make of that?”

 

“Oh my god.  I thought he was doing ok.  He was excited to have therapy.  We did eat dinner together and when I say eat, he really did consume food.  What happened last night though?  His apartment was perfectly tidy when I left.  We had a takeaway there.”  Emerson drained the last of the brew and began to flatten the cup. 

 

“I wonder if he told the doctor about the drinking.”  Miles stood, his fists clenched.  “I’m going to play the bad copper.”  He pointed at Emerson, “and you are going to have to decide whether you want to pick up the pieces as good copper.  Come on, let’s go confront him.”

 

Emerson jumped to follow his superior.  He couldn’t tell whether this would end badly with the whole lot of them being thrown out of the hospital for starting a brawl.  He was feeling the beginnings of a raging case of guilt.  If he had stayed with Joe, he might not be in the hospital.


	5. Diagnosis

When Miles and Kent entered Joe’s room, they found him on his side with his eyes closed, the bed slightly elevated.  His normally fair skin was almost grey.  The nurse and ultrasound tech were just leaving.  Neither of them would give out patient info per hospital policy, not even for charming police. 

 

Joe stirred when he heard the door open and close.  Miles felt some of his anger evaporate as his eyes met Joe’s red rimmed ones.  “Right.  You going to tell us what they found, or are you going to make us interrogate you?”

 

He smiled wearily.  “They’ve eliminated the intestinal block diagnosis with the scan.  They think I’ve got an ulcer, unofficially.”  Joe lifted the corner of his mouth in a small, sad smile.  “I should be feeling slightly better now they’re giving me fluid and some anti-emetic.”

 

“Good news, that’s treatable,” piped up Kent, who was hoping Miles might ditch his idea to probe into Joe’s drinking habits.

 

“What about the empty vodka bottle in your bedroom?”  Miles moved closer to Joe and sat in the chair next to his bed.  “Did you tell the doctor about the missing time?” 

 

Joe crossed his arms and sighed at the question and the tangle of iv tubing.  “No, I haven’t.”  He reached for the cup of water on the tray.  “I think you should leave, Miles, but thank you for your help.”

 

“If you don’t give them the whole picture, they can’t fix you, Joe.  When are you going to deal with the elephant in the room?  I care about you and so does this idiot next to me.  You can’t pretend that drinking half a bottle of vodka and having a blackout is going to get you back into Whitechapel Police station.”  Miles spoke viciously, intending his words to shame him into compliance.  He knew Joe was sick, but he couldn’t stand idly by while his friend tore himself to pieces.  He stole a glance at his friend, hoping this was the right tactic.  Emerson was practically wringing his hands next to him. 

 

“I know it’s a problem.  I’m dealing with it.” Joe seemed strangely calm, yet his hand trembled as he lifted the water to his lips. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” he whispered.  “I don’t even remember taking a drink, I was so overwrought.”  He turned to Miles, facing him fully, “I woke up in the hallway this morning, Miles.  In the bloody hallway.  My neighbor woke me up.  I think it might be the new pills the psychologist prescribed.”

 

Tears began to roll down Joe’s cheeks.  “I can handle alcohol.  I can manage decomposing corpses.  I know how to apprehend a bolting suspect.  I can take a punch.  I can’t stop these overwhelming thoughts.  I can’t deal with this mess that’s up in my head.”  He covered his face with his hands.

 

He couldn’t even call it by its name.  Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  Acknowledging the illness would make it real.  He preferred being known as an eccentric DI instead of the mentally ill DI.  Joe could feel the water burning strangely in his stomach.  It was half past two in the afternoon and he hadn’t eaten since early that morning.  The nausea that had slowly been fading came back with a vengeance.  Emerson sat on the bed next to him and stroked his arm, noticing the dampness of his skin.  He murmured platitudes because he wasn’t sure what else he could do.

 

“Aw, love,” Em rubbed Joe’s cheek. “I bet after a quick stay in hospital, you’ll feel better in the morning.  You’ve just had a bad night, and new medication.  I don’t think we need to get quite so worked up.”  He glared at Miles.

 

Miles glared back.  “This isn’t going away.  You haven’t been handling it.  I’m going to speak to the doctor if you don’t do something today, you great big git.”

 

Joe sighed and squeezed Emerson’s hand, wanting desperately to grab him in a bear hug.  He nodded mechanically, knowing what was coming next. “Em,” Joe nudged him urgently, “Get up.  Now!”

 

Emerson was about to be indignant at the rudeness, but he could see Joe turning green.  He yanked back his hand so he could clamp it around his belly. 

 

“Sorry,” he huffed, “I’m going to be sick.”

 

Emerson leapt off the bed as Miles slid a clean basin in front of Joe.  It was just in time too.  Up came clear fluid, and bloody bile.  Joe shuddered through the spasms.  He gasped for breath, sputtering pink droplets on the white blanket.  Emerson pressed a handful of paper towels into his hands while Miles left to find the doctor.

 

“Have you been vomiting blood before, Joe?” Kent asked him in a quietly shocked tone.

 

“Not really.  Just a bit.”  He blew air out of pursed lips.  “My god, this hurts.  I thought things were settling down.”  He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes.  “Oh, it’s worse when I’m laying down.”  He sat up, grasping at the bedrail.  The room began to spin grotesquely.  He grabbed Emerson’s hand again, squeezing it tightly.  He had never felt so ill before and began to sob openly as he leaned into Kent’s shoulder.

 

Doctor Linnert swept breezily into the room with a panicked Miles trotting behind him.

 

“Right, Mr. Chandler, I understand you’re having some bleeding.” The middle-aged doctor peeked into the emesis basin.  “Oh, that’s enough to be alarming, isn’t it.”  He smiled disconcertingly, showing two rows of neat, white teeth.  He snapped on a pair of gloves.

“I’ll need you to lie back now.”  He began lowering the head of the bed.  “Do you still feel sick?”

 

Joe nodded and released Emerson’s hand.  “I’ve had incessant nausea for most of the day and pain in my belly.  It’s worse when I’m laying down.”

 

“I’ll just keep you a little bit upright then, this won’t take long.” He hummed and shined a torch into Joe’s mouth.  He listened to his chest and abdomen with the stethoscope.  Easing Joe’s gown to the side, he palpated his abdomen.

 

“Have you been eating normally?”

 

“I haven’t been able to manage much.  Low appetite.”  Joe coughed and then suffered through a round of dry heaving.  The nurse swept in and produced another clean bowl.  Joe managed only to rid himself of a bit of bloody saliva. 

 

Emerson held Joe’s hand once again and listened to Dr. Linnert outline a plan to get Joe back on the road to wellness.

 

“First, we’ll give you another round of anti-emesis meds through your IV.  I think at this point, you shouldn’t have anything by mouth for at least six hours to give your stomach a bit of a reset.  I strongly suspect this is a peptic ulcer.  You’re showing a bit of bloating and the nausea and blood in the vomit is highly suggestible.”  He rolled his chair away from Joe’s bed and stood.  “I’m ordering an endoscopy, which will let us see into your stomach with a tiny camera.  You’ll be under light sedation for that, which I daresay will make you blissfully unaware for an hour or so.  Have you got any questions?”  He rubbed his hands together agreeably. 

 

Joe blearily shook his head no.  He felt too awful to ask any questions.  He was absolutely ready for the relief of medicated sleep.

 

“So, what causes an ulcer?” Kent asked, stroking Joe’s knuckles.

 

“Oh, an infection, medication abuse, and sometimes it is idiopathic, where there is no apparent cause.  But, once we make a diagnosis, treatment is straightforward.  We should get you feeling better quite rapidly.”  He made it sound so simple.  Kent felt a sense of relief wash over him.

 

“What about all the vomiting?”  Miles inquired.  “That’s not a typical sign of ulcer is it, doc?”

 

“It’s not terribly unusual.  Your temperature is elevated.  It could be a combination of a gastrointestinal virus and the ulcer.  I have seen some patients react to pain with vomiting.  It’s all just a cluster of symptoms that is unique for each person.”

 

Noting there were no other questions, he smiled hopefully and left them alone. 

 

***

 

Kent assured Miles that he was fine and could handle being at the hospital alone.  Miles finally relented and left to eat dinner and sleep while Kent stayed on and waited.  Emerson notified Commander Anderson that Joe was undergoing a procedure, since he was the only family he had ever mentioned.  To his surprise, the commander arrived in the waiting room wearing jeans and a sweater just a half hour later.  Kent had only seen him in his formal blues.  The commander asked very few questions and he left shortly after the procedure was complete.  Kent wasn’t sure if he knew about their relationship.  Every few minutes, Kent wanted to probe him for information about Joe, but at the last moment he’d stop.  He wasn’t sure how close Joe was to the older man and how much information he shared with him.  Anderson promised to stop back in the next day. 

 

It was half past three in the morning when Joe was truly aware of his surroundings.  He blearily turned to find Kent snoring in the chair next to his bed.  It was weirdly blissful.  He had no pain or nausea for the first time in days.  He was overcome with gratitude that Kent would sit for so long with him.  It was the most loving thing someone had done for him in a long time.  Maybe it was the medications that made him feel so maudlin, but he was close to tears that his friend was there.  A nurse stopped in to check on him.  He’d be discharged in the morning after the doctor spoke with him.


	6. Clean and Calm

It was a bright, sunny morning and Joe found himself once again surrounded by a rather forgiving Emerson and a grouchy Miles.  They were bickering, eating pastries and drinking coffee.  Joe felt relief that they weren’t pressuring him to eat anything, though the scent of coffee made him miss his green tea.  He was still on nil by mouth.  He felt hollow and wrung out, but not sick. 

 

Dr. Linnert entered and asked to clear the room for patient privacy.  Joe allowed Kent to stay, while Miles was relegated to the hall.

 

“Well, Mr. Chandler, you appear to have a peptic ulcer,” he reported.  “It’s about a centimeter and a half in diameter.  Your blood results are negative for H. pylori, so it is likely to be caused by external stimuli.”  The doctor continued, “Have you a history of taking nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories or other pain medications?  I ask, because discovering what caused the ulcer will allow it to heal.  You cannot continue doing the same things as before.” Dr. Linnert used his most serious expression. 

 

Kent’s gaze flickered to Joe, who licked his lips before he answered in a quiet voice. “I don’t take them every day, but you know, the occasional headache.”

 

“I’d say you take some aspirin at least 4 days a week, Joe.” Kent piped up.

 

The doctor looked up from his chart and glanced between the two men and after a beat said,  “Well, you will need to use paracetamol instead.  We’ve shot you full of proton pump inhibitors so you produce less stomach acid.  That should reduce the discomfort and allow the ulcer to heal.  Although you may have more difficulty with digestion.  Tapering those off in a month will be best.  Avoid alcohol.  You don't need any special diet.  Small regular meals seem to work for most people.  Everyone seems to tolerate different things, so I’m afraid that’s going to require some guesswork on your part.”  He paused and then continued, “You’ll be discharged soon.  You may have a little bleeding for the next few days, but that should stop.  If the vomiting or bleeding increases, you should return.  Follow up with your physician in the next week.  I’ll give you a script for a PPI.”

 

Joe frowned and asked, “Should I continue the Prozac?  It’s only the second day I’m on them.  It’s for my obsessive compulsive disorder.”

 

The doctor frowned in turn, “Oh, that medication isn’t listed here.  You say it’s a recent one?” 

 

Joe nodded.

 

“I advise you to continue the Prozac and contact your therapist.  It’s only anecdotal, but Prozac can cause upset tummies and other digestive side effects.  You haven’t been on it long enough to cause withdrawal.  Definitely speak with your other doctor about changing the medication.”  And with that, the doc made a few final notes and left the room. 

 

***

By noon, Joe was sprung from the hospital.  Kent drove him home and got him settled on the couch with a bowl of chicken soup.  He had to head to the station, as the cases were starting to pick up near a full moon.  Kent promised to check in with him and Joe wearily breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. 

 

Finally left to his own devices, Joe took a very long shower.  He shaved twice.  He fretted about the length of his hair, wondering if he could make it out to have it trimmed.  His body felt sore, his stomach burning intermittently.  An intense fatigue settled over him after the ablutions and knew he wouldn’t have enough energy to go for a cut.  The last thing he needed was to pass out in the street.  Kent wouldn’t ever let him alone again. 

 

As he passed the kitchen, his vial of anti-depressants stood out on the counter.  He picked them up, the pills rattling softly, remembering that he hadn’t taken a dose today.  He placed the blame for being in the hospital entirely on the pills.  He pulled off the top and let a few fall into his hand.  Their shiny green and white outside was perfect and regular.  They were beautiful by design and impeccably clean, what an ideal way to cure OCD.  Too bad they turned into pure poison in his body.  But he had an idea.  He strode over to the bathroom and emptied the entire contents into the toilet.  He flushed with satisfaction.  Now he was left with the empty container.  He wouldn’t put it past Kent to dig through his trash, so he found a bottle of vitamins in the back of the pantry and refilled the prescription bottle with pills.  He would not have to take the Prozac, and he could maintain this little charade until it didn’t suit him any longer.

 

He sat on the sofa to rest, and he did so out of necessity.  It felt heavenly to read the newspaper and close his eyes when he felt them drooping.  Yes, quite relaxing until he noticed the mess that was his flat.  When he realized he had been sitting amongst the chaos, the urge to tidy came on like a roiling tide. 

 

He talked to himself as he picked up strewn papers.  “How did this happen, Joe?”   He slipped them into a file box.  “This isn’t like you, you idiot.”  The pens scattered across the coffee table made him wince.  “I must have been blitzed out of my mind.  What on earth was I thinking?”  Sweeping the pens back into their cup, Joe stood too quickly and swiftly felt the room tilt.  He clutched the table and sat for a moment.  Ah.  He needed to eat something.  The nagging pain of the ulcer seemed to mask all feelings of hunger.  Small meals was what the doc had recommended. 

 

It had been two hours since he ate the soup under Kent’s watchful eye.  After some yogurt and a large green tea, the lightheadedness faded and he tackled the mess in the bedroom.  Kent had volunteered to clean it for him, but Joe declined his offer.  He had the best of intentions, but wouldn’t know where to put things.  He was able to make headway for an hour when sharper pains of heartburn stopped him in his tracks.  He tried massaging his chest and sipping water.  He was peeling the paper off a roll of antacids in the kitchen when Emerson called.

 

“Joe?  How are you?”  he sounded like he was clattering up the steps at the station.

 

“Emerson,” Joe answered.  “I’m fine.  It hasn’t been very long since you left.”  He rolled his eyes to himself.  Playing along would probably get him off the phone faster.  He was feeling better than he was yesterday, but far from fine, but he wasn’t going to let Kent know that.  The heartburn seemed to be increasing in severity. 

 

“You sure?”  Kent sounded suspicious, “it’s just you sound a little breathless.  Are you resting?”

 

“Yes, love, I’m resting.”  Joe sighed and pressed his body against the countertop.

 

“Have you called your shrink and taken, um, the meds?”  Kent asked in a quiet voice.  He wasn’t accustomed to bossing his boss, yet.  But he had the feeling that he would get used to it.

 

“Yes, I took the meds.  No, I haven’t called yet.” Joe paused to take another sip of water.  “I rested and cleaned up the place a bit.  I will call him later.”

 

“I don’t want to be a nag, but I wanted to hear your voice.  You scared me with the ulcer.”  Kent sounded so earnest. 

 

“I’m sorry.  I’m not trying to.  I’ve been a bit of a mess lately.”  Joe smiled to himself.  “I’ll see you tonight?”

 

“Ok.  You really want me to come?”  Emerson sounded hopeful.

 

Joe felt a surge of affection for Kent and decided to go with it without thinking too much.  “Would you spend the night?  Consider moving back in?  I feel like I have a handle on my stomach thing.  Honestly, my anxiety has dropped considerably since coming home.”  He let out a breath only regretting his admission slightly.

 

Kent was silent for a moment, and Joe wondered if the call had been dropped.  “That’s wonderful.  Uh, I do want to do that.  How about I come and spend the night tonight and see how it goes for a week or so?”  Kent sounded like he was whispering, and Joe realized that he wasn’t alone.  He ended the call, not wanting to make life difficult for Emerson at the station, or at least not any more difficult than it already is.  He chewed the chalky antacid tablet until he couldn’t feel the grit on his teeth.  The mint reminded him of his tiger balm and he wondered where he had put the last pot.

 

The afternoon clouded up and Joe was starting to feel very tired.  A dull feeling of nausea settled in, since the meds from the hospital were wearing off.  He meandered into the bedroom with the vague idea of taking a nap, being unconscious seemed like a wonderful idea.  But when he saw the duvet twisted and the pillows bunched, his chest tightened.  He’d have to wash everything.  Stripping the bed didn’t take long.  By the time he wrestled the duvet out of the cover, he was sweating.  He used a handkerchief to wipe his brow and tossed it in with the sheets as he placed them in the washing machine.  The door shut with a satisfying snap.  He filled the soap dispenser and turned on the machine.  He had four extra sets of sheets and duvet covers.  These were the things Emerson would learn when he moved in.  He felt a spike of anxiety at the thought of explaining why he might need to change the sheets more than once in a day.  How often did Kent change his sheets? 

 

Joe ran his hand over the freshly changed bed.  It soothed him to see the room looking neat again.  As he sat on the bed and felt his weight settle into the mattress, he noticed motes of dust floating in a sunbeam.  He knew it.  Vacuuming would have to be next.  It wasn’t an option to ignore it and it seemed to require less energy to relent and deal with the compulsion.  He pulled out the machine from the closet and began what he thought would be a quick hoovering to clean the floor.  Instead, he found himself doing an intense deep clean.

 

As he finished hoovering under the bed, he stopped to wipe sweat from his dripping forehead.  Now he was really starting to feel exhausted and a bit trembly, when without warning, a stab of pain nearly brought him to his knees.  The vacuum hose dropped from his hand and he gasped in surprise.  Doubled over, Joe breathed shallowly, willing the pain to recede.  And it did eventually subside.  He reluctantly dragged the vacuum back to the closet without winding the cord up.  Shutting the door on the tangled cord was the best he could manage right now.

 

What did his discharge note say about pain?  He took the packet of papers from the hospital and sat on one of the high stools that were at the breakfast bar in his kitchen.  Scanning over the directions, he reviewed the list of medications he could have.  Antacids and the PPI were about it.  Painkillers were out unless he wanted to try paracetamol, which he found to be as useless as a sugar pill.  Small meals should help with pain, said the stupid list.  Joe grumpily opened a package of wholemeal crackers and began alternating half a cracker with half an antacid tablet.  It was a disgusting combination, but he continued grimly until the burning pain stopped. 

 

Now that the bedroom was clean, he could take the nap he so badly needed.  Slipping out of his clothes, he pulled on a clean pair of black silk boxer shorts and climbed into bed.  Sleep came rapidly, pulling him down into dreams.


	7. Deception

Kent was exhausted.  Since Joe had taken medical leave, they had been one man down in the department.  Commander Anderson didn’t hire a new person or shift personnel down to their cave.  Each of their team was scrambling to cover.  Miles was taking the brunt of it, directing the team and doing a damn good job at it.  Emerson thought he preferred not being in charge.  The emotional toll was too great.  And, Emerson didn’t want Joe to know how much they needed him back.  He wanted the man to heal properly before he grew any new ulcers.

 

He stopped by his apartment to pack another suit and some pajamas for this move-in trial.  He passed a kebob shop on the way home and picked up dinner for them both.  He tried calling Joe to ask him what he wanted but he didn’t pick up his mobile.  Joe always picked up his phone, so Kent sped back to the apartment with a chicken, a falafel and a baked potato so there would be an abundance of options. 

 

Emerson tried calling again as he rode up in the elevator.  No answer.  He felt the flutter of alarm in his stomach.  He regretted not asking for a key when Joe was in hospital.  If he had to have the door broken down, it wouldn’t look good for the DI’s reliability.  Anderson would surely hear about it.  He made his way down the carpeted hallway.  The plastic takeaway bag crinkled and his overnight bag banged against his hip in an uncomfortable way.  It sent a twinge of pain all the way down his leg and he was ready to rest on the sofa in front of the telly and put this lousy day behind him.

 

He pressed the bell twice.  Emerson pressed his ear against the door.  He couldn’t hear a thing.  Nothing but silence.  His palms began to sweat a bit and the bags slipped in his hands.  He shifted all of them to the left side so he could bang a loudly with his dominant hand. 

 

“Joe!” he shouted.  “Let me in, mate.”  Bang bang bang.  He thought he heard the faintest of sounds from inside.  His irritation at being left in the hallway made him impatient, so he tried the bell three more times followed by several more bangs.  After several moments of waiting, he pulled out his mobile, ready to dial Miles to see if he had a spare key or a set of lock picking tools or battering ram.  As he was about to call, the door cracked open.

 

Kent sighed in relief as Joe ushered him in.  The apartment was dark, the only light came from the glow of the streetlamp in the window and the led in the microwave.  Joe squinted at Emerson.  His hair stuck up in clumps.  The harsh light of the hallway highlighted the bruises on Joe’s arms where they had attached an iv. 

 

“You ok?”  Emerson peered at Joe, who was rubbing his eyes and holding onto the door with one hand.

 

Joe nodded.  “I was asleep.  Sorry.  Were you out there for long?”

 

“I was about to ring the fire brigade to break in, love.” Emerson smiled at his very sleepy friend.  He eyed Joe’s shirtless torso, noting the sudden weight loss had emphasized his ribs.  He leaned in to kiss him dryly on the cheek, and when Joe didn’t back away, he rested his chin on his shoulder. 

 

“I’m glad you had self-restraint.”  Joe muttered wryly.  “I’ll go get a shirt.”  He rubbed his arms lightly, which were breaking out in gooseflesh.

 

“Don’t get dressed on my account.”  Emerson called after him, feeling a surge of affection.

 

He watched Joe stagger slightly and rebalance with his hands on the wall, as he walked down the hallway.  “I brought some dinner, Joe, if you haven’t eaten.”  He placed the takeaway on the counter and threw his overnight bag down next to the sofa.  He noticed a roll of antacids next to a pile of papers.  At least half of them were gone.  The dosage stated that no more than seven tablets were to be taken in a 24-hour period.  Ah, so he was going to be on medicine management duty. 

 

Joe emerged with several more layers of clothing than he had on before.  Emerson tried to hide his disappointment.  He adored looking at Joe’s naked body.  He knew he’d have to wait until Joe was feeling better before ripping off the posh terry sweat pants, soft sweater and viscose tee shirt.

 

“Thanks for coming back.” Joe approached Emerson from behind and hugged him. 

 

“I’m a bit stuck on you, foolish man.” Emerson swiveled the chair so he could face Joe.  “Let’s eat something.  I’m famished.  Have you eaten?”

 

Joe made a face of disdain.  He rubbed his chest unconsciously.  “I did eat some crackers earlier, but since you’ve gone to the trouble...”

 

Emerson moved to unwrap the boxes of food.  “Right.  Well, that’s good.  Crackers aren’t really a nutritionally complete meal, you know.”  He wrinkled his brow at Joe.  “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for, so I got a plain baked potato, some falafel and veg, and chicken kabob.  You know me, I’ll eat anything that’s leftover when you’ve chosen what you want.”

 

Emerson could see that Joe was moving slowly, still groggy from sleep.  He had a little more color in his face since being in hospital, but he was still clearly not back to normal.  He pulled out two plates and sets of silverware.  He brought Joe a glass of mineral water.  What he really wanted was a beer, but he sacrificed his wants for a glass of orange juice to keep Joe on the straight and narrow. 

 

The blonde man took a falafel, some of the roasted veg, a chunk of potato and after a moment’s deliberation, a piece of chicken.  Kent loaded up his plate and sank down into the chair.  “Been on my feet all day interviewing witnesses to that high-profile mugging on the train.  Everyone says something different.  One of them also seemed to be against showering.  I’m so happy to be here.”

 

Joe nodded, witnesses were a difficult bunch to handle.  He had always been sensitive to odors, even as a child.  Shuddering at the thought of being in enclosed spaces with unwashed bodies, he shifted in his chair and took a bite of falafel.  It was room temperature and salty, but not unpleasant.  He spent more time chewing it than was necessary.  Kent made small talk about what was happening in the department.  He occasionally looked over at Joe, who didn’t offer much in the way of conversation. 

 

“You ok?”  Kent finally asked, watching his boyfriend break the potato up into small pieces.  Joe ate them one by one and shrugged at him. 

 

“I’m ok, Em.  Honestly, I’m mostly very very tired.”  He sighed and put the fork down, placing a hand on his belly.  “I feel sore.  Not very hungry.”

 

“Try the chicken, it’s really good.”  Emerson felt annoyed at Joe’s reluctance to eat.  He wanted to push the older man just a bit.  He thought Joe would put a little more effort into it.  _He_ bought the food, _he_ stood in the hallway for an eternity, _he_ carried the conversation single handedly. 

 

Joe noticed the subtle tone of disapproval in his voice.  He sliced the meat into shreds and chewed a bite of it slowly.  “It’s good, love.  But I think I’m done.”  He lifted the plate and took it into the kitchen to scrape it into the trash.  Dirty plates hardly ever touched the counter.  Joe always slotted them into the dishwasher immediately.

 

Emerson took stock of what Joe had eaten and decided it wasn’t enough to keep a mouse alive.  “Ok, is there something else you’ll eat?  That’s not nearly enough to keep your strength up.”

 

Joe closed the dishwasher and faced Emerson with his arms crossed.  “Sorry, I know I need to be eating more.  I just can’t tonight.  I’ve got a lot of discomfort and I really, really don’t want to eat what you think I should and then throw it back up.”  Joe sat next to Kent and said in a soft and charming voice, “Thank you for taking care of me.  It means a lot.  I’m going to be better tomorrow about eating.  You have my word.”

 

Emerson had heard it all before.  Joe was good at making promises.  But he was also sexy as hell and rather close at hand.  He reached forward to kiss him questioningly on the mouth.  Joe leaned in and they had a rather dreamy make-out session until he put his hand on Kent’s chest to stop him. 

 

“I’m enjoying this, but I need to lay down.” And with a shaky breath, he padded off to the bed room.

 

Emerson felt as if he had been spun around and around twenty times.  The kisses were warm and sweet.  He wasn’t prepared for such an abrupt ending to the connection.  He followed Joe, who was now propped in bed, one arm across his stomach and one over his eyes.

“What’re you feeling?  Can I get you anything, Joe?”  Emerson sat on the end of the bed.

 

“It’s the same old thing, Em.  I feel sick.  It burns here.”  He pointed to a spot on his chest.  “The food was a good idea, but I’m not digesting it well.” He paused to burp quietly and grimace.  “I’ll take an antacid from the roll on the counter.  Maybe some chamomile tea.”

 

Emerson nodded and tried to look on the bright side.  At least he wasn’t vomiting or crying or binge drinking.  This will pass, he told himself, as he pulled a white tablet from the roll.  He slid the kettle onto the burner.

 

He brought the tea into the bedroom on a tray along with a white tablet on a tiny saucer.  Joe had shifted to his side and appeared to be asleep.  At the very least, his face was slack, the lines on his forehead smoothed by rest.  Emerson pulled on a pair of pajama pants, brushed his teeth and slid into bed next to Joe.  When he drew his fingers over the blonde’s tangled hair, he didn’t stir.  He fell into a dreamless sleep in the comforting embrace of Joseph Chandler.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the muse sticks around, I probably have about 6 more chapters of this story plotted out. Uh, if you call this a plot. *scratches head* Well, I'm having fun. Thanks for reading!


	8. One Forward, One Back

 When he awoke, it was because Joe was untangling himself from Emerson’s grasp.  It must have been late, because the sun was streaming in the windows.

 

He sleepily asked, “You ok?”

 

Joe nodded, “Just headed to the bathroom.  You don’t have to ask me that constantly.”  Emerson heard the splash of urine in the toilet bowl and then a snarky, “I’m not made of bloody glass.”

 

He felt the warm place that Joe had vacated.  He stretched and smiled to himself at the thought that he could do this every night, wrap his body around Joe’s.  And they would have peace and calm together away from the station with its dark histories.

 

He reluctantly slid out of the cozy sheets.  Joe had moved to the kitchen to make tea.  Emerson pulled bread out of a bag, something incredibly full of fiber that Joe had chosen.  He popped it into the toaster.  “Did you take your meds yet?  I put in toast for you.”

 

Joe smiled at the kindness, “I will.  How’d you sleep?”  He lined up the pill containers in front of his plate. 

 

“Quite well.  Surprisingly.  I get a bit jumpy on my own in the flat alone when everyone’s out.  I have trouble settling down.  It felt so comfortable to be with you.”  Emerson grinned at him shamelessly.

 

Joe filled a glass with tap water and made a point to uncap the bottles and swallow the pills in front of Emerson.  Emerson handed Joe a plate of dry toast.  The jam and butter were already sitting on the counter.  Joe crunched his way through a thinly buttered slice with a bit of jam and then another.  The paper kept his attention while he was eating.  He didn’t notice the toast was gone until he looked up and his plate was empty. 

 

“You must be getting your appetite back, hm?”  Emerson gestured towards the toaster.  “Another slice?”

 

“I hope so.  No, I don’t want to push it.  Look at this,” Joe tapped his finger on the front page of the paper.  He used a linen napkin to wipe toast crumbs from his mouth.  “That mugging is making headlines.  Miles is going to be furious.  The axe will fall on his neck if I don’t get back to work and stop lollygagging around here.”

 

“You need to build up your strength.”  He gazed at the older man knowingly, “Speaking of lollygagging, I have to get ready.  I wish I could stay with you all day,” Emerson gave Joe a wistful look and brushed by him, rubbing his hand over his back.

 

Joe nodded and began to tidy the dishes.  He put back the raspberry jam.  He folded the foil wrapper back around the butter.  It only took two minutes to slot the cups and plates in their spots in the dishwasher.  He started wondering what he was going to do with the rest of his day, especially since Kent let slip how badly Miles needed him.  Going back to work would be better than being cooped up in this apartment, fretting about motes of dust on things and obsessing about the lining of his stomach. 

 

He heard Emerson call from the shower that he needed a towel.  Joe hopped up, and then abruptly bent over as a dull ache spread in his belly.  He had been feeling rather well after breakfast, so this new pain took him by surprise and he let out a strangled, “Ow.  Bugger.”

 

“Joe!?  Could you bring me a towel?” Emerson called a little louder.  “I don’t want to drip all over your floor.”

 

Joe rubbed his belly to relieve the twinge and stood upright, the pain remained the same, but at least it didn’t get worse.  He braced an arm across his body and tried to arrange his face in a neutral expression as he pulled a fresh grey towel from the closet.  The floor felt cold on his bare feet and the pain was fading.  It was slowly replaced with a general feeling of nausea. 

He passed the towel to Emerson, who accepted it gratefully.   “Thanks, Joe.”  He dried himself quickly and then wrapped the towel around his hips.  He paused to glance at his boyfriend, who had turned the color of paste.  Joe was getting impatient with his constant check ins, but he couldn’t let this obvious sign go unnoticed.  “Hey,” he cupped his hand under Joe’s elbow.  “Should you sit for a minute?”

Joe nodded and allowed himself to be led to the chair in the bedroom.  Mercifully, Emerson said nothing else to him and busied himself with getting dressed.  Joe sat, breathing deeply, trying to will the nausea away.  He watched Em pull on his trousers and button-down shirt.  He knotted his tie slowly, drawing out the moment with Joe before he had to go to work.  He watched Joe out of the corner of his eye, swallowing compulsively and looking as if he were facing a firing squad.  He wondered if Joe was going to have another trip to the hospital.  This time Miles was up to his eyeballs in witnesses and the commander was breathing down their necks to get the violent mugger off the street.  Miles wouldn’t be able to take him and he wasn’t sure if Miles could spare him.

Emerson pulled on his vest, doing up the buttons slowly when Joe rose from his chair in a sudden motion and fled to the bathroom, banging the door shut.  It was going to be a bad day for Joe, Emerson knew it.  He heard the telltale signs of retching from behind the door.

Joe wouldn’t want him in there hovering as he was ill.  So, he sat on the bed and dialed Miles to let him know he’d be late.  Miles sounded carefully neutral.  He said he understood and asked him to meet them at the bus station at 10:30 if he could get away.  He sighed and tugged a little at his dark curly hair before getting up and speaking through the door at Joe.  “You alright in there?  Can I come in?”

He heard water running and coughing, so he pushed the door open.  Joe stood at the sink leaning against the counter.  He grimaced at Emerson, “Sorry.  I know you wanted to get in to work.  I’m ok.  I feel better now.”

Emerson leaned against the door frame.  They had a lot of conversations in bathrooms it seemed.  “I called Miles.  I don’t need to go just yet.  What happened?”

Joe sighed and dried his face with a towel.  “I don’t know.  I had some pain, followed by nausea.  Being sick helped and I feel better now, if a little shaky.  The toast did not agree with me.”

Emerson sighed in tandem with his lover.  “You have to be able to keep food down.  You have to try eating something else today.”  Tears filled his eyes, “I can’t go to work with you here puking your guts out.”

Joe pulled Emerson into an embrace.  Em wiped his tears away and pulled away from Joe to take stock of the situation.  “I don’t plan on doing that any more today, if that helps,”  Joe promised and tugged at the hem of his shirt.  “I know I need to change this.” He trailed off and Emerson released his grip on Joe’s waist. 

“I’m going to make a cuppa while you do that.” Emerson pulled the shirt up and off Joe’s muscular torso and threw it in the hamper.  He could count every rib.  Now the solid bulk of his muscles was starting to shrink.  Realizing how much his lover was diminishing caused a pang of alarm in his stomach.   Emerson made some chamomile tea and a cup of green tea.  His way of coping, it seemed, involved providing an excess of things Joe might eat and drink.

When Emerson finally left, Joe had been settled on the sofa with a soft blanket and a movie.  He had tea, a glass of milk, a bowl of crackers, chicken soup and bananas on a tray next to him.   Joe looked mildly annoyed at all the fussing.  Emerson guessed that he claimed he would eat so he would leave him alone and go to work.  Joe promised to call Emerson if he was sick again.  He almost believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will have some Emerson whump, if that excites anyone. I can't torture Joe all day, now, can I?


End file.
